Nameless, by Know Me

NAMELESS

By Know Me

Time

Ascends and descends. Unknown paths, unknown destinations... creating
warps, passing through random wormholes in the space-time, I have never
known the next stopover in this journey. Nobody could ever get to me,
neither can you. You exist in a different space-time, in an alternative
reality, and we together suffer the embarrassing existence of relative
time...

There are times in my life when 'I can live a lifetime in a moment'...
There are times in my life when I wait a lifetime to live a moment...

What consolation does this passage of time has in it...
The sand in the hourglass trickles down the time-hole, taking all the
grains of life along with it, and gravity devours it all, leaving a vacuum
up above somewhere...

The same feeling one gets when in a roller coaster ride...

The drops of blood in my heart follow these sand grains, sinking deep into
myself, and the lamentable self of mine suckles it all, creating a vacuum
up above somewhere...

The grains are sucked by the hungry gravity... and the hourglass waits,
sometimes for a few moments,
sometimes for days,
and sometimes for centuries...
before a mysterious hand would invert the hourglass... and resurrect the
time...

Alas! The blood sucked by my lamentable self is gone forever; I am never
resurrected...
neither after moments, nor after centuries, never...

Seasons roll on...
What consolation do these changes in the season have in them for me...
Summer arrives with its nostalgic afternoons, far away somewhere you can
hear sounds of mill-wheels, as audible, as subtle, as your heartbeat. Very
long afternoon of intense heat, cracking, melting, and burning... and my
vulnerable self spends all its time trying to keep itself together, keeping
it from burning, melting away, developing cracks in it...
Monsoon arrives as the scorching heat of summer dies away. Heavy rains,
storms, floods, lightning and thunders, muddy paths, humidity, perspiration
and suffocation...
Autumn arrives with shedding of leaves, pale yellow sun, rusty leaves and
bare trunks of futile trees...
Winter arrives. Life is taken over by foggy days, icy cold nights, lifeless
outdoors, and haunting howls... Every day dozens of frozen dead bodies are
found out there in the city limits, bodies of the animals and bodies of the
humans...
Spring... what comfort does arrival of spring has... colorful and odorous
flowers and their ephemeral bloom...

Clock ticks...
The loud echoes of this ticking in my hollow self sound like the blowing of
the bugle, calling the buried... Memories...

Oh what consolation do these memories have...
The memories of all those who have been sent away,
all those who have been buried,
all those who have forgotten,
and all those who are forgotten...
the memories of the moments when this room inhabited the mortal beings, and
not the immortal souls of the dead...
All that has remained today is this yearning, only if somehow I could
relive those moments, only if I could, these ghosts wouldn't come to
whisper in my ears to wake me up in the dark nights... what consolation do
these lullabies have in them for me...

I am not the first prey fallen to Time... this human race has always been a
victim of it, witness to the wicked conspiracy of the Time,
of building of the magnificent histories,
of celebration of its ashes,
of anecdotes and narratives of the lost glories, of victories and defeats,
of human sufferings...
What consolation do these old and new histories provide to me...

Resurrection of time will continue...
until I find the wormhole leading to myself...

Being Human

Oh what consolation is there in being a lump of Flesh and Bones...

>From Amoebae to Homo sapiens, and the primitive cavemen to the
post-moderns, there has been a horrific evolution of ages... and still this
lump of flesh and bones is in a search of itself...
Imperialists... communists... exploitative capitalists... socialism...
sedatives... nerve gases... Political correctness and incorrectness...
survival of the fittest...
Is 'this' the human being who survived as the fittest, for whom the history
had to wait for centuries, the fittest of species, goal of the evolution...
What consolation is there in living with this utter embarrassment of being
such a goal of evolution...

Prison

Strong iron bars, though enough to let in the minimum amount of oxygen that
will let me survive, hold me from running away. Imprisonment looks to be my
fate, an eternal reality...
I wish I could run away. I would run until my legs develop sores, then I
would develop wings and fly away from this...

I am a prisoner of existence, still unable to understand the law here, and
I do not know the length of my stay here. The rules here are harsh... I am
battered sometimes even when I try to breathe, I try to sneeze, I try to
eat, I try to shit, I try to masturbate, I see a woman, I try to sleep, I
try to speak, sometimes I cannot even whisper here...
It has been a long time since they began torturing me that I should have
become numb now, but I am given a continues dose of injections so that I do
not develop an immune system

Every day and every night I spend here increases the hurt in this bare
piece of bruised meat. How much comfortable do I feel when the wind blows
over my skinned flesh, every time the delicate legs of a fly tickle me...

I walk around in my cell and in the passages in this barrack and in the
central courtyard, smoking, burning my lungs, waiting for the time when I
will find a shelter for this skinned meat to hide, waiting for the time
when these dark nights in this prison would end...

Night

What consolation does this night have for me in it...

Born as a result of consuming the bright Sun. The Sun, emblem of life on
the planet, harbinger of warmth and light. Night evolves from the twilight,
slowly eating up the life, creating an alter-reality, aggrieved and
lifeless. Night in the jungle, full of beasts, humans and buildings...
Lucifer's game, the horrible episode.

Doesn't it signify the departure of another ship, the ship sailing away
towards the heart of darkness, time struggling to make its way through the
roaring river of Time. The river being shallow and unaccommodating,
protecting its Kurtz... Fate of night...
Night, the beginning of the longing for the lost ones... loss of another
day...
What consolation does this hopeless dawn of darkness has for me in it...

Roaming alone, dogs howling, moonlight, darkness, same abandoned nameless
paths, broken pavements, tired cold trees, cigarettes' smoke, broken
slippers, kicking and rolling stones along the ground, listening to
bitter-sweet symphonies on the walkman, staring at the blackhole-suns up
above somewhere...
What consolation does this hopeless wandering has in it for me...

Twinkling starts, distant enough to affect my life
what consolation do these scintillating spots give.
Infinitesimal
Eternal
beyond the reach of man...
a distant reality...

And do you think this moon has any reason for remaining suspended up
there...
does it comfort me, or even himself,
shining with a borrowed light,
incapable of concealing its scars,
abandoned by his own mother,
a reminder of isolation, suffocation,
a distant sorrow...

Nightmares... sweet dreams... meaningless hallucinations...
alter-realities...
What consolation does this trance give me...
An escape !
A dismal hope to "what if there is no tomorrow" !
What if there is one, after which there is another night, the same wicked
night...

Then the night gets so dark
So suffocating
I cannot even scream
I just lie down, I stare at the black shelters; sky... ceiling...
eyelids...

I sleep...
With the hope that when the new dawn would break
'Cleansing the doors of perception
Everything will be seen as at is, Infinite...'

Mirror

What consolation does it have?

Oh!!! What consolation does it give me when I look in the mirror.
Mirror is the same and so am I, I am the same and so is the mirror...
Same face, same features, same organs fixed over the skull-board like
pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, tailored together by the paste of clay-like
blood... but when fixed together, they never seem to form the image they
are intended to create, they do not seem to communicate to me or to each
other what each of them wants.

I have never been able to break out of illusion this mirror renders, and
always take his word for granted, the word of a soul-less dead mirror who
doesn't even know the reason for his own existence. Or if it does, is such
an imposter that it has never let me know what he thinks of me.

Lying eyes, laughing and crying in just one glimpse, in a moment, always
been lying to the friends and to the enemies and to the me...
These eyes always loved by those who have never cared to love whom they
belong to, and I still consider these eyes to be faithful... a friend.
They always hide from me the essential dire realities spread around me,
realities essential for my existence. They just don't know that I just want
to know the Truth, just the truth. Is it just, the truth.
Am I a prisoner of these eyes which this mirror shows to me, a prisoner of
my own illusion...
They have always been wickedly engaged in a conspiracy along with the
mirror against me. Never letting me see what mirror actually sees of me,
what he actually thinks of me, and I still consider these eyes to be
faithful... a friend.

What consolation does these ears on the either side of my face provide me,
all they hear are the same old truths all day, and all they hear are the
same old lies all day. Have they ever let me listen to the songs I have
ever wished for, the songs of laughter and forgetfulness, the symphonies of
harmony... what consolation do I get when I see them.

Oh!!! What consolation does it give me when I look in the mirror.

I see this nose, never letting me forget the body odors, sweet fragrances,
smell of the slimy slums spread around all over the town mocking the human
evolution...

Oh and what consolation do I have when I see these sweet torn lips in the
mirror, burning with sweet blood running through them, they are the same,
and do you think they ever change when I look me in the same old mirror...
Even they always betray, in the intercourse of their own they never forget
to forget who they ever belong to, a soul dying for love or a petty lustful
creature exploited by emotions.

This forehead I see the same, these hair unchanged everyday, how much easy
do they make my life ... and oh yes the gray matter concealed under them. I
cannot see that, the only thing I would like to see, feel, and this mirror
hides it.

Oh what consolation do I have when I see you... my dear mirror.
Oh what consolation do you have when you see me... my dear mirror.
Haven't we gotten tired of looking at each other, of each others'
unbearably light being, of each others' meaningless existence, never being
able to tell each other the truth. You never told me the truth, but let me
tell you today what I feel for you.
I want to see you bleed, I want to see you praying for mercy, I want to see
the image you show on his knees, begging, crying, and... dying.

Oh and what a consolation I had when I saw the Red streak and a gun in the
mirror that finally broke. And behind the broken mirror was the wormhole
leading to myself...

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